


Still Life with Lipstick

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Yuletide, Yuletide 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-14
Updated: 2007-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:18:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1638530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy hasn't let herself go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Life with Lipstick

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Laura for betaing and generally being awesome.
> 
> Written for Corbeaun

 

 

"With Carla out on maternity leave, Andy, you'll be covering fashion week."

Andy straightens in her chair, startled, and looks up from where she's been doodling little stick figures for the past half hour while Greg gives out assignments.

"What? I thought I was doing that piece on the governor." Her heart races, and she tells herself it's only because she almost got caught napping.

Greg nods. "That, too." He raises a hand, forestalling her protests. "And before you ask, yes, it's because you're the only one who knows anything about the fashion industry." He smiles thinly. "PETA is supposed to be protesting, so it won't be all fluff."

She wants to protest that it's not fluff at all, that it's a multinational, multi-billion dollar industry that affects many aspects of many people's lives, but she's not Miranda Priestly. She knows she can't pull it off.

And anyway, that's not her life now.

*

She misses it, sometimes, the kick of adrenaline from knowing Miranda was in the building, the rush of getting something just right, of seeing that approving nod, the power of calling famous people and being put right through, of getting the best table on a night when no tables were to be had.

When she mentions this to Lily, Lily says, "But do you miss being bitched out when her coffee's not hot enough, or when that six hundred dollar Hermès scarf she asked you to pick up isn't the right color blue? Do you miss taking her calls at six a.m., or not being able to come to Doug's housewarming because you have to wait for the book?"

And Andy has to say no.

She doesn't add that she misses the gull-wing white of Miranda's hair, the perfection of her skin, the specially blended perfume that clung to her coat and wafted through the air, letting everyone know, with lingering hints of neroli and ylang ylang, that Miranda Priestly had been there.

None of her friends would believe her, so she doesn't tell them, but Miranda appreciated her, and maybe she misses that most of all.

Since she and Nate broke up for good, she feels like no one appreciates her at all.

*

Andy doesn't take cabs everywhere anymore--she can't afford to. She doesn't wear her Jimmy Choos to work, and the only Birkin bag she has came from a street vendor down on Canal Street. But her closet is still packed full of all the stuff she got from working at _Runway_ , and she's the best put-together reporter at _The New York Mirror_. If the clothes sometimes feel like a silent reproach, she ignores it. She knows she made the right choice, as much as she sometimes misses her old job.

Lily suggests selling it all on Craigslist and using the money to go on vacation in the Bahamas, and Andy laughs and says she'll think about it. She knows Lily's not joking, but she can't bring herself to get rid of any of it. The clothes are beautiful, and they make her feel good about herself.

And now she won't stick out like a sore thumb at Fashion Week.

*

She plans her outfits carefully, aware that she might run into someone from _Runway_ at any time. She looks good, she feels good, and for the first three days, she allows herself to get lost in the thrill of it all--the models and the photographers, the clothes and the movie stars. She's working, but it's nowhere near as hectic as it ever was when she was at _Runway_ , and she actually has time to enjoy herself, even as she types notes up on her Blackberry.

Each day, she sees Miranda in the front row, in that whole other world where she used to belong, and tells herself the butterflies in her stomach are about getting the assignment right, and have nothing to do with Miranda at all.

*

Andy's surprised to see the credentials for the _Runway_ show in her mailbox. It's an invitation-only charity event they run each year (and she's even more surprised to see Zac Posen's on the card along with Miranda's--there had been some sort of friction between them no one would ever talk about), and invitations are hard to come by. Knowing this, she dresses carefully in a black Chanel suit and shows up on time.

She tries to tell herself the invitation doesn't mean anything, but Miranda's never made a meaningless gesture, and Andy's pretty sure this one is intended to remind her of the life--the person--she walked out on. She feels that same fluttering low in her belly at the thought that Miranda still cares enough to make the point. That Miranda cares at all.

Then she tells herself she's crazy, that it's not about _her_ , it's about Miranda.

Secretly, though, as she unbuttons another button on her jacket and checks her makeup, she wishes it were true.

*

The show is orchestrated with the precision of a military event, and Miranda sits in the front row like a five-star general, her face impassive under the white sweep of her hair and the perfectly matte finish of her red lipstick.

Andy's in the crowd of the press gallery, answering an email from Lily as a model struts down the catwalk in a gorgeous full length sable coat. There's a sudden hush and then a naked woman leaps onto the catwalk with a loud shriek and sprays _fur is murder_ across the coat. The model shrieks in response and slaps at the protestor, and a melee breaks out.

The crowd hums in a crescendo that Andy can feel vibrating in her bones, and the crowd shifts left and then right, everyone fighting their way out of the tent, which is now overrun with PETA members spray-painting slogans across anyone who gets in their way.

Andy stumbles along with the crowd, clutching her bag close and praying she doesn't get trampled, that the tent doesn't come down on top of them. She can see a patch of daylight ahead and to the left, and she tries to push her way towards it, using her elbows and her hips the way she used to on the dance floor of clubs where guys had gotten too friendly and she'd had to defend herself from being groped.

There are two bodies--she stopped thinking of them as people the second time she got elbowed in the head--between her and the patch of sky, and then she's squeezing her way out into the cold February afternoon. A hand wraps around her arm and pulls, and Andy cries out until she recognizes Miranda's driver.

"Come on," he says, pulling her out of the milling throng and guiding her to Miranda's car.

Miranda is flushed but otherwise unfazed by the pandemonium surrounding them--Miranda is a force of nature in her own right, and nothing PETA could whip up can touch her--and the car slips away up Sixth Avenue, an oasis of calm in the chaos. Police in riot gear are massing on the Forty-Second Street side of Bryant Park, and Andy has to take a few deep breaths to get her heart rate under control.

She smiles tentatively at Miranda. "Thank you," she says, her breathlessness giving her away.

"You've let yourself go," Miranda says, giving her a long, slow, appraising look before slipping her oversized sunglasses on.

"It's great to see you, too, Miranda." Andy's mouth quirks in a rueful half-smile.

The car swerves to avoid a taxi pulling out from the curb, and Andy slides along the smooth leather seat, her movement stopped only by Miranda's body. _A body in motion stays in motion,_ she recalls from high school physics, _unless acted on by another force_. And Miranda has the gravitational pull of the sun.

Andy straightens up, shockingly aware of the way her thigh is pressed up against Miranda's, with only the thin layers of their stockings separating them. She swallows hard, leans her weight on her right foot to shift away, and Miranda's hand lands on her knee, perfectly manicured nails red as fire alarms. Gravity exerting its pull. Her thumb moves in small, slow circles, warm against Andy's skin through the sheer material of her pantyhose, and Andy to close her eyes and open them again before she can believe this is actually happening.

Miranda's foot brushes Andy's ankle, sending a shiver through her, and Andy forces herself to take a deep breath and relax. Well, relax as much as anyone ever can around Miranda Priestly. They're pressed together from shoulder to knee, and the movement of the car in stop-and-go traffic makes their thighs rub together in a way that's driving Andy crazy, little shocks of want igniting under her skin, catching in her throat. And Miranda is still stroking Andy's knee, sending sparks of heat through her body and making it hard for her to breathe. She can see the fluttering pulse at the base of Miranda's throat; she's still flushed, which makes Andy flush in turn, slow heat uncurling low in her belly.

With her free hand, Miranda pulls a folder out of her bag and spends the ride pretending to read. At least, Andy thinks she's pretending, since her hand is still on Andy's knee, and she never turns a page. They don't speak. For a while, Andy feels as if she's been flung back in time, as if she never left _Runway_. Except Miranda had never groped her. Stared at her ass a few times, which Andy had just put down to the clothes and not actually Miranda checking out her ass, but maybe she was wrong.

It's all a little too surreal, to be honest.

The ten blocks between Bryant Park and the Elias-Clarke building are endless and too short at the same time. Andy isn't sure she knows what's happening, or how she feels about it, but she knows she's both desperate to get out of the car and hoping the ride goes on forever.

When the car pulls up in front of Elias-Clarke, Miranda says to the driver, "Take Andrea to her office."

"Thank you," Andy says again. Miranda is already halfway out of the car, but she inclines her head briefly in acknowledgement.

Once the door is closed again, Andy leans back against the soft leather seat, and exhales in relief. Her skin is still tingling from Miranda's touch, and she wonders if she's going to make it through the rest of the work day without squirming at her desk, replaying those touches in her mind.

*

Andy's flushed and warm when she gets back to her desk, still trying to decide if what she _thinks_ happened in the car _actually_ happened. And what she's going to do about it if it did.

"Are you okay?" Greg asks.

"What?" It takes her a moment to realize that he's talking about the stampede at the show rather than what happened in the car afterward. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine. I got out okay. It was crazy, though." People gather around her desk and she gives them the scoop. She tells herself remembering how scary it was is the only reason she's a little short of breath, and that she can't feel the heat of Miranda's hand lingering on her knee. She wonders, with a small spasm of anxiety that might contain a little flutter of desire, if she smells of Miranda's perfume.

She doesn't notice until she's putting her coat on to go home that her scarf is missing.

She can't remember if she had it when she escaped the tent, but she thinks she did. And if it were a ten dollar fake pashmina from the guy on the corner, she would let it go, but it's her Burberry wool scarf, a freebie from her _Runway_ days, and she can't afford to buy a new one.

She rubs her sweaty palms on her skirt and tries not to think about how Miranda touched her as she picks up the phone. Her voice is slightly breathless when she asks if Miranda has her scarf.

"Your scarf," Miranda repeats, as if Andy isn't speaking English. And then, "Oh yes, of course. You may pick it up tonight. Come by the house at ten."

"Miranda--"

"That's all." And she hangs up.

"Okay, then," Andy mutters to dead air, and puts the phone down with a click.

*

Andy goes home, and if she takes a shower, shaves her legs, and dresses as carefully as she had earlier in the day, well, she wants to prove Miranda wrong. She hasn't let herself go. It's just been a while since she's had to do any of that stuff, since there was someone she wanted to do it _for_.

She slips her shoes on, makes sure her earrings are hanging straight, and even as she tells herself she's being ridiculous, she applies perfume to her pulse points.

She hasn't had a date in months. When Nate left for Boston, they'd tried the long-distance thing, but it hadn't worked. Suddenly his job was taking up all his time, and his weekends weren't free. She understood--she keeps him as a friend on Facebook, and on the distribution list for the newsy notes she emails her parents and friends back home. It was a relief, really, to know it was over. At first, she was just glad to have some time to herself, but she's starting to get lonely. And horny.

Not that this is a date. She's picking up her scarf. She probably won't even see Miranda. The twins' nanny will open the door and hand her the scarf, and Andy will tell herself she wasn't actually groped by Miranda Priestly in the back of her car, and life will return to normal.

*

Andy rings the doorbell at the stroke of ten--old habits die hard, and Miranda is big on punctuality--and has to stop herself from taking a step backwards in shock when Miranda opens the door herself.

"Don't stand there on the doorstep, gaping like an idiot," she says.

"Hi," Andy replies, _feeling_ like an idiot and stepping into the foyer.

"You may hang your coat up," Miranda says, gesturing to the closet.

Andy does as she's told, manages to hang up her coat without embarrassing herself, and follows Miranda into a tastefully decorated sitting room. Miranda points her at the blue-striped Queen Anne settee and then sits down next to her.

The book rests on the coffee table next to a creased copy of _The New York Mirror_ and a sweating highball glass with two fingers of scotch in it.

"I've been reading your work," Miranda says. "You're style is improving."

"Thank you." Andy can feel herself blushing, and she's not quite sure where to look, so she meets Miranda's gaze.

Miranda brings up a hand and brushes the tip of her finger along the arch of Andy's cheekbone, then tucks her hair behind her ear. Andy's mouth goes dry at the touch, her tongue thick and heavy and unable to form words.

"Surely you know why you're here, Andrea." Miranda twirls a lock of Andy's hair around her finger, playfully, but Andy knows the threat of having her hair pulled is always there. She finds herself thinking of situations where she might like to have Miranda pull her hair.

She knows she can play innocent, say, _To pick up my scarf?_ and get the hell out, and maybe it's just because she's been alone for a while now, yearning for someone to touch her, or maybe it's because Miranda was right and Andy _does_ want the glamour, at least around the edges of her life, but she doesn't.

She licks her lips nervously and nods. "Yes, Miranda."

"Good." Miranda's hand--soft and smelling of expensive hand cream--cups her cheek again, pulls her close for a kiss.

Miranda's mouth tastes of heat and good scotch, the sharpness of her words belied by the sweet curl of her tongue. Andy sighs and wonders frantically what to do with her own hands, which seem to move of their own volition to cup Miranda's face in return, her skin satiny smooth and warm to the touch. They kiss for a while, slow and thorough, and when Miranda pulls away, she's breathing heavily; her lipstick is smudged and her eyes are dark and unguarded, pupils blown wide with desire.

She's beautiful.

 _I did that_ , Andy thinks in proud amazement, and then Miranda's kissing her again, and she can't think at all.

*

Andy wakes when Miranda gets out of bed, and she's afraid she's made the biggest mistake of her life--bigger than taking the job at _Runway_ , bigger than leaving it--until Miranda gives her a small, secret smile that disappears almost as quickly as it appears.

"Derek will drive you home," she says.

"Okay." Andy scrambles out of bed and starts pulling her clothes on, embarrassed and surprisingly turned on at the site of Miranda all sleep-warm and tousled. "My scarf?" she asks when Miranda heads to the bathroom without saying anything else.

"I'll bring it this evening when I pick you up for dinner," Miranda says.

Andy lets out a small gasp of surprised pleasure, and says, "Okay." She stands in the doorway for a moment, still stunned, until Miranda pokes her head out of the bathroom and eyes her skeptically. "Do you need anything else, Miranda?"

"No, Andrea." Miranda's smile is smug and predatory, and it sends a hot little shiver of need down Andy's spine that's going to keep her squirming all day. "That's all."

The city is waking as she leaves the townhouse, a wide smile on her face.

end

 

 

 


End file.
